


the life you live when you're awake

by heartwasalegend



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartwasalegend/pseuds/heartwasalegend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> After nine months of fantasy spooling through her mind, she’s spent more time with the arrangement of pixels they named Root than she ever did with the apparently-flesh-and-blood version staring her down in the dark. </em>
</p><p>Shaw comes back. Moments from the missing week between 5x09 and 5x10 and after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the life you live when you're awake

i.

Root does devotion in extremes. Not once, in over seven thousand simulations, could Samaritan predict that she would turn a gun on herself.

Shaw couldn’t either, but then, after nine months of fantasy spooling through her mind, she’s spent more time with the arrangement of pixels they named Root than she ever did with the apparently-flesh-and-blood version staring her down in the dark. 

Shaw’s lip curls up in disgust as she lowers her arm and lets Root relieve her of her exit strategy. 

 

ii.

Shaw wakes in a safe house she’s never been to before, in this reality or the others. 

There’s muted light filtering through partially newspaper-covered windows, and apart from the bed Shaw is occupying there isn’t much furniture to speak of. Shaw sits up and rubs the tips of her fingers behind her ear. No incision. She presses harder and waits for the lights to flicker. When that yields nothing she rights herself and struggles to remember how she got here. She remembers the park, and then the bridge and then an endless, silent car ride with Root. After that there’s only blank space in her mind. 

There’s a stack of clean clothes on the floor by the bed and Shaw dresses quickly, casting a practiced eye around the room. No sign of her gun. The only door is cracked open and Shaw approaches slowly, pushing at the handle and listening hard for any sign of life. 

The apartment doesn’t seem to contain much more than a small kitchen and a dingy looking sofa with some loose bedding spilling off it on to the floor. Shaw stalks quickly across the expanse between her and what must be the door. She grips the handle tightly and feels a strange mix of relief and reluctance when it turns easily. She doesn’t have a weapon, but she can’t pass up this window of opportunity. 

She makes it about six feet down the hallway before she pulls up short.

“Sameen.”

Root is staring at her, arms full of grocery bags. 

Shaw shifts her weight uneasily. “The door was unlocked.”

“You’re not a prisoner here, Sam,” she says softly, carefully. 

“I can’t stay,” Shaw says. “It’s not safe.”

Root watches her for a long moment, like she’s weighing her options, and Shaw curls her right hand in to a fist. 

“Okay,” Root says finally. “If you want to go, we both know I can’t keep you here.” 

Shaw chokes out a laugh. “Don’t suppose you’ll give me my gun back.” 

Root shifts the grocery bags in to one hand, pulls a gun from her waistband and offers it to Shaw. 

“Please don’t use this on yourself,” she says quietly when Shaw takes it.

“If you decide you want to stay,” Root adds, slipping around Shaw and pushing the door open with her heel. “I’m going to make some breakfast.” 

Root leaves the door cracked, which is idiotic from a tactical perspective, but Shaw can’t seem to stop staring at the narrow strip of light spilling out. She leans back against the wall opposite the door and slumps down to sit. 

She disassembles and reassembles the gun in her hand three times before she goes back inside. 

 

iii. 

She sleeps in fits and starts, half-wakes still dreaming of Root leaning over her, Root suggesting a field trip, Root moving to kiss her, Root telling her she’s going for breakfast; skips over and over the simulations infecting her brain like a virus. When Root finally does come she just stands in the doorway, bleeding restless, hesitant concern. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

Shaw avoids her eyes, glares up at the ceiling with clenched fists. Root leaves for a moment, comes back with a glass of water she sets on the ground by the bed. Root’s every move seems calculated to keep her out of Shaw’s reach and Shaw can’t tell whether that’s for her benefit or if it’s an attempt at self-preservation. 

Root doesn’t leave, though. She lingers in the doorway like she’s not sure whether to stay or go. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Shaw mutters up at the ceiling above her. 

“I know,” Root replies, simple and clear. “Do you want the door open or closed?”

Shaw presses her fingers hard against the jut of bone behind her ear. 

“Open.”

 

iv. 

Root is nowhere to be seen when Shaw wakes up. Instead, Shaw finds Harold puttering around the pathetic excuse for a kitchen. Bear perks up from his spot on the floor and watches her intently. 

“Hey buddy,” Shaw tries, crouching down a healthy distance away. That’s apparently enough encouragement for Bear, who immediately bounds over and commences licking Shaw’s hands and cheek. 

“Miss Shaw,” Harold says. “Glad to see you up and about.”

“About is an overstatement,” Shaw mutters, “Where’s – “ 

She cuts herself off there, working the tension in her chest in to a few good ear scratches for Bear.

“Miss Groves and Mr. Reese are working a number,” Harold says, taking a few halting steps in her direction.

Shaw doesn’t look up. “So you’re babysitting.” 

“Quite the contrary,” Harold replies. “I’m afraid my presence is needed elsewhere. I thought perhaps you could look after Bear for the day.”

Shaw bites back a comment about how she would be of more use working the number; she can tell it’s a non-starter. It’s obvious that the kid gloves are virtually welded on at this point. Bear flops over on to his side and Shaw winds her fingers through his fur. 

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, sparing Harold a quick glance. “I’m sure we’ll be able to keep ourselves busy, won’t we boy?” 

Bear’s tail thumps against the floor in response. 

“Excellent,” Harold says, picking his way around the two of them on the floor and heading for the door. He pauses, and out of the corner of her eye Shaw sees him turn back.

“I’m very glad you’re alright, Miss Shaw.”

Shaw nods minutely in response, remembering all of the iterations of Harold she took to task over not finding her sooner. 

“There’s a little something for you in the fridge,” Harold says, and then goes. 

Shaw gives Bear a few more belly rubs before standing and making her way over to the refrigerator, which is, at best, two decades old. The cold air that greets her is almost a surprise. There’s a familiar paper bag sitting on the top shelf and Shaw knows what it is immediately. Her stomach turns over and for a moment, panic seizes her lungs. She half-expects to turn around and see Greer and she’s reaching for the space behind her ear before she even consciously registers the need to. 

Bear wanders over and nudges at her other hand with his snout. She rests it on the top of his head for a moment and lets the warmth bleed in to her palm. She sucks in a sharp breath and reaches for the bag. 

Bear’s tail thumps eagerly and Shaw says, “Sorry buddy. It’s people food.” 

She can smell the mustard through the bag and it makes her head pound. 

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture; Shaw knows an apology when she stumbles in to one. But there are things she can’t undo anymore, associations that stick fast to the edges of who she is now. 

She throws the bag in the trash. It feels, very briefly, like the end of the world, but then, Shaw’s been to the end of the world seven thousand times. She’ll know it when she sees it again. 

 

v. 

Shaw snaps back in to consciousness barely registering the soft give of Root’s throat in her hand. 

“Shaw,” Root forces out, hands scrabbling against Shaw’s arms.

Shaw releases her immediately, already sick at the feeling, ready to apologize, ready to run. Root’s hands don’t stop moving, pulling at her insistently. 

“Come on,” she says, urging Shaw up. “We need to move.” 

“What is it?” Shaw asks, voice rough with sleep. 

Root drags her up out of bed, forcing whatever clothes she can get her hands on in to Shaw’s arms before answering. 

“Our cover is blown,” she says, pulling Shaw towards the door. “Samaritan agents are two minutes out.” 

Shaw expects to feel angry, these are the people who stole nine months of her life after all, but instead she feels only calm. 

“Give me a gun.”

Root doesn’t answer, just drags Shaw out the door behind her, angling her body in front of Shaw like a shield, and it’s that small gesture that finally, actually, enrages her.

“Are you fucking kidding, Root?” Shaw grinds out.

They’re interrupted by heavy footfalls on the stairs and Shaw is about to actively take Root’s gun when Reese comes in to view a flight down, closing the distance between them two stairs at a time. 

“At least fifteen at the front,” he says, so clearly addressing Root in a way that makes Shaw’s jaw clench. “There another way out of here?”

Root’s face smoothes over and her eyes sharpen and Shaw knows she’s listening to the Machine. 

“There’s a decommissioned fire escape,” Root says, already stalking away down the hall. “It’ll only take us down to the third floor.”

“What then?” Reese asks, falling in to step behind Shaw to cover their rear. Root doesn’t answer. 

 

Under normal circumstances watching Reese pick garbage out of the collar of his suit would be the highlight of Shaw’s day but it’s hard to find the humour in anything when its so starkly apparent that no one trusts her enough to give her a gun. Reese hotwires a delivery van a block away from the safe house and just like that they’re free and clear. Shaw is not the only one to find that suspicious. 

“This isn’t like them,” Root says, quiet enough that Shaw has to strain to hear her from the backseat. 

Reese nods. “We’ll ditch this and double back on foot.” 

After a circuitous few blocks Reese tucks the van in to an alley and finally acknowledges Shaw’s presence, “You good?”

Shaw rolls her eyes. “Be better with a gun.” 

Root is already walking towards the mouth of the alley, scanning the street ahead of them. When no weapon appears to be forthcoming Shaw follows, swallowing down her irritation as Reese falls in behind her. 

“We’re clear,” Root says, “Two cameras at the end of the block. Stick close to the buildings and keep your heads down.” 

They make their way through the city slowly, winding down alleys and cutting through buildings at Root’s instruction. It takes Shaw longer than normal to figure out where they’re heading. It isn’t until she catches sight of a sign bearing Chinese characters that she pulls up short. Reese only just manages to avoid running in to her. 

“Shaw?” he asks.

She presses down hard on the skin behind her ear. No incision but it’s still all too bitterly familiar. They’ve never been able to convince her to take them this far before. 

“No fucking way,” Shaw says, turning to walk away. 

Reese moves to block her path, and Root catches her by the wrist a moment later. Shaw twists, breaking her grip easily and takes off at a run. She’s not quick enough. Reese has her around the waist in seconds but she squirms and lands a heel to his kneecap. An elbow between the ribs and she’s almost free before she feels the sharp sting of the needle in her neck. She reels, lashes out with a closed fist and registers impact before everything goes dark. 

 

vi. 

Her eyes feel heavy and unfocused in ways she knows intimately well when she comes to in the dim yellow light of the subway. She finally did it. She finally delivered her friends and the Machine to Greer and his lackeys. She sits up, stomach turning over and head spinning with enough intensity that black spots crowd her vision. 

“Hey.” She hears distantly as hands grasp at her shoulders to steady her. “Go slow.” 

A few deep breaths bring her vision in to focus and she takes in Root, kneeling in front of her, looking equal parts miserable and terrified. Her lower lip is swollen and bruised and Shaw can just about make out the faint smudges where blood has been wiped away. Shaw remembers throwing one punch before the drugs pulled her under and there’s no way that Root’s lip isn’t her handiwork. She brushes Root’s hands off and goes to stand. 

Root skitters backwards, putting enough distance between them for Shaw to feel like the walls aren’t closing in around her. 

“I’m sorry,” Root chokes out, her hands reaching and falling away in the empty air between them. “I didn’t want to have to do that but I needed to get you somewhere safe.” 

It takes Shaw a moment to figure out that Root means the drugs. She feels something hot and angry flaring through her chest at the look on Root’s face. Maybe she stayed away to keep them out of danger but this, the pity written across Root’s features, might be worse than that. She expected as much from Harold, but not Root. 

“You did what you had to do,” she says, voice straining with anger. She goes to tuck her hands in to her pockets and clocks the blunt ache of broken skin pulling across her knuckles. She flexes her hand a few times, letting the pain ground her. The motion drains most of the rage out of her and she takes careful steps in to Root’s space. 

“Let me see,” she says, gesturing at Root’s mouth with a quirk of her chin. 

“It’s fine, Sam,” Root whispers.

Shaw rolls her eyes and reaches up, pressing lightly around the wound. Root winces and takes in a sharp breath, but the cut stays closed. It’s going to be a nasty bruise. 

“You need to put some ice on this.”

Root nods, almost apologetic, and then disappears in to the depths of the subway.

Shaw wonders if this is real. 

If it isn’t, her friends are probably dead by now but there’s no way to know where that leaves her. Will they cut off the simulation? Yank her back in to the real world and let her see what she’s done? Or just leave her, lingering here in limbo with Root, or at least, the only imitation of her real enough to make Shaw give it all away. 

Root returns, holding a makeshift ice pack to her mouth and smiling at Shaw in a tentative, searching way. 

“She’d like to speak to you.”

 

vii. 

It’s been an hour since Root left her in the subway car with a hand to her shoulder and a murmured, “I’ll leave you two to it. We need supplies.” 

So far the Machine has done exactly nothing except blink a cursor at Shaw in one of the more annoying standoffs she’s ever been a part of. Shaw has had enough of the delicate treatment from her friends, she certainly doesn’t need any more of it from a collection of wires. 

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters to herself and stands, scanning around for the weapons locker. It’s still tucked away in one corner and Shaw is about halfway across the car when a low-pitched tone sounds behind her. Shaw turns and reads the words trailing across the screen. 

**THE COMBINATION HAS CHANGED.**

Shaw exhales an irritated breath through her nose.

“Any chance you’ll tell me what it is?”

 **PLEASE SIT.**

Shaw deliberates for a moment before deciding that arguing with their robot overlord is Harold and Root’s game. She slumps back in to the computer chair and waits.

 **THANK YOU.**

“What do you want?” Shaw asks, impatient. 

**TO HELP.**

Shaw huffs out a laugh.

**YOU ARE STRUGGLING WITH REALITY.**

“And the artificial super intelligence straight out of a bad sci-fi movie is the thing to help me with that?” Shaw says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tell your girlfriend I don’t like being the subject of your pillow talk.” 

**SHE IS WORRIED.**

“I’ll bet.” 

The Machine blinks a cursor at Shaw for about a minute before all of the screens glaring down at her light up at the same moment. It’s all moving too fast for Shaw to get a good handle on what’s happening at first but she catches sight of her parent’s names on one screen – a marriage certificate – followed quickly by her own birth certificate tracking across another. There’s baby pictures, school pictures, a report card. After a minute of watching the minutiae of her life flicker in front of her, Shaw figures it out. 

She’s struggling with what’s real and what isn’t. The Machine is throwing her a lifeline. 

“Okay,” Shaw says, and the screen goes dark. There’s dozens of questions filtering through her head. 

“Was my father stationed at a base in Qatar?”

The Machine pulls up her father’s service record, zeroes in on his placements. They were in Qatar from 1985 to 1987. 

“Was there a merry-go-round?”

The screen goes blank, cursor twitching on and off, like the Machine is breathing, thinking. The first thing Shaw sees is satellite images of a base, and then the Machine zooms and zooms until all that’s visible is the detritus of a swing set and what could be the outlines of a sandbox. A second later a requisition form pops up and Shaw reads the equipment listed there, including one merry-go-round. 

“Okay,” Shaw says, and the slate is wiped clean once again. She nods, mostly to herself, and runs her fingers over the smooth, unmarked skin behind her ear. 

“Did I kill John Reese?”

The screen closest to her lights up with grainy surveillance footage. John is sitting in a car, speaking in to a cellphone. As if to drive the point home, the word **NO** appears.

 

Shaw loses track of time combing through her life with the Machine. She’s not totally convinced this isn’t a simulation, but it is seeming less and less likely that Greer is pulling the strings. They’ve gone over her academic record, her ISA days and some of the more memorable numbers. 

Shaw has been holding off on asking about it, but there’s an itch behind her eyes that’s dragging her attention away from the information streaming in front of her. 

“Root and I,” she begins, setting her jaw in a firm line. She’s about to go on when each of the screens flickers to life. Root holding an iron to her collarbone, Root tasering her in her bed, Shaw walking Root out of the apartment in a black hood. Time skips forward and Root is knocking out a pilot in Alaska, knocking out a drug dealer in Miami, knocking out a security guard in Jersey. 

“We – “Shaw says weakly, and as though anticipating the rest of that sentence the tone of the footage shifts markedly. 

Shaw holding Root against an alley wall with her forearm to her throat, Root kissing her against the windows of Shaw’s apartment, Root’s hand over her mouth. They spent so much time in the months before the Stock Exchange using the shadow map, and Shaw’s brain instinctively starts filling in the blank stretches of time. 

“Jesus,” Shaw mumbles. There’s audio. 

“Cute, right?”

Shaw very nearly falls off her chair at the sound of Root’s voice. She whirls around and her eyes catch immediately on the bunny slippers that presumably muffled her approach. 

Root smiles. “Who knew She would have such an aptitude for scrapbooking?” 

Shaw turns back at the screens which are still running footage. “The Machine is,” she says, rubbing at the space behind her ear, “kind of a pervert.” 

“I know,” Root says, sounding particularly pleased. “Harry is mortified.” 

Shaw chuckles weakly in response, scanning the screens. Her gaze stills on a small square of black and white security tape footage. Shaw is lying on her front, back bare and half-covered with a plain white sheet. Her face is turned away and Root’s arm is slung carelessly across her body. They’re sleeping. 

Shaw exhales a slow breath. 

“Root,” she says, voice low and quiet. “I don’t know if I –” she gestures vaguely, eyes trailing towards the floor, unable to articulate exactly what she means. 

Root half-laughs behind her. “Sameen, I’ve never wanted anything from you that you weren’t willing or able to give. For a long time, I thought you were – “she clears her throat. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again. You being here, you being alive – is more than enough for me. It’s everything.” 

Shaw doesn’t know what to do with the clarity and purpose in Root’s voice, so she just nods, turning back to look at the screens as they cut to black. 

“Here,” Root says, and Shaw glances up as Root sets a take out container on the desk. “You should eat something.”

“Thanks,” Shaw says. 

Root retreats with a quiet, “Try to get some sleep tonight. I’ll be close by if you need anything.” 

 

viii.

Shaw’s eyes hurt from staring at the Machine’s screens for hours. She leans back over the top of her chair, cracking the sore spots out of her back. 

“Alright,” she says, “I think that’s enough for now.”

**WAS THIS HELPFUL?**

Shaw considers that for a moment. She shrugs and says, “I’ll let you know.” 

It’s always hard to tell what time it is in the subway, and she can’t trust her internal clock anymore. 

“What time is it?” 

**3:42:51:00 AM EDT**

Shaw watches the milliseconds twitch forward. 

The light outside of the subway car is dim and soft enough that Shaw almost misses Root, long frame curled up on the bench Shaw once woke up handcuffed to. She knows first hand how uncomfortable it is. 

“Hey,” she says, half-whispering, but it’s enough to rouse Root. She sits up quickly, scanning the room.

“What is it?” she asks, sounding surprisingly alert. 

Shaw cocks her head towards the bedroom that apparently sprung up in her absence. “Come on.” 

Root stares at her for a long moment and Shaw resists the urge to fidget under the weight of her attention. 

“Whatever,” Shaw rolls her eyes. “Suit yourself.”

She barely takes two steps before she hears the rustle of Root getting to her feet and following. Shaw doesn’t have enough energy to comment on the décor, just tugs off her pants, shrugs out of her hoodie and climbs in to bed. Normally she would insist on taking the outside, but it seems unlikely that Root will ever settle down unless Shaw draws first blood. 

Root finally lies down in the space Shaw left for her. Her body is all long, tense lines against Shaw’s side, so she turns to face Root, settling on her side and waiting. 

Root laughs quietly, shaking her head in the dark. After a long pause, she rolls over, mirroring Shaw. The silence stretches out between them as Root stares and stares while Shaw props herself up on an elbow. 

It’s Root who makes contact first. Her fingers trail up the side of Shaw’s neck, settling gently against the space behind Shaw’s ear. Shaw knows she wants to ask, but is equally sure she won’t. Telling her won’t make a difference, Shaw knows that, but she feels something shift and expand between her ribs as Root’s fingers drift across her skin. 

Root smiles a little and lets her hand fall. “We should sleep.”

Shaw nods, satisfied with the relaxed set of Root’s muscles. She turns her back to Root, thinks about saying goodnight, but decides against it. 

“The combination to the gun safe is 7008.”

“The two of you need to stop talking about me.”

Root’s murmured apology is the last thing Shaw hears before succumbing to sleep. 

 

ix.

“Good boy,” Shaw says, accepting the soggy ball Bear retrieved from the far corner of the subway station. She tosses it again and Bear takes off, paws scrabbling against the floor, almost falling, before finding purchase. 

She’s had the subway to herself all day, with Reese, Harold and Root all working different numbers. Her muscles are heavy with unspent energy, and she feels restless and unsettled. They can’t hope to keep her here much longer. It’s only the impossibly irritating meaningful looks Root can’t stop levelling at her that have kept her cooped up this long. 

She looks up eagerly at the creak and slide of the vending machine door. Root trudges down the stairs wearing a black and white striped shirt, black slacks and orthopedic sneakers. There’s a bright orange whistle hanging limply between her lips and she’s carrying a cooler, a soccer ball and a set of cleats which appear to be dripping blood. 

“Looking good, Root,” Shaw says, stifling a laugh.

Root whistles weakly and rolls her eyes. She lets the whistle drop and says, “Number was an 8-year-old soccer prodigy. Her rival’s mother was looking to pull a Tonya Harding.” 

“Sounds fun.”

Root grins. “It’s not exactly stealing a jet, but it does come with its perks.” She produces two popsicles from the cooler and hands one to Shaw. 

“It’s cherry,” Root adds, unnecessarily. Shaw has already ripped through the packaging and figured that out for herself. 

Shaw whistles for Bear. He bounds over, dropping the ball at Root’s feet and wiggling around excitedly in front of her. Shaw’s eyes narrow. Traitor. 

“What have you two been up to?” Root asks, trying and failing to conceal the casual nudge she gives Bear towards Shaw. Bear gamely pads over and Shaw crouches to rub his ear with her free hand. 

“You’re looking at it,” Shaw replies, shooting Root a look. “Not much for a prisoner to do around here.”

Root grins. “I seem to remember you being something of a fan of being restrained, Sam.” 

The glare Shaw shoots in her direction doesn’t do much to dissolve the sudden tension simmering between them. Shaw wonders if Root even notices that she’s biting her lip. Shaw’s attention is narrowed down enough that she doesn’t see Bear lunging at her popsicle. She barely manages to keep her balance but the popsicle is a lost cause. 

Root scolds Bear gently in Dutch and hands Shaw her own popsicle, smiling apologetically, her white teeth stark against the purple-blue of the bruise on her lip. Root's popsicle joins the other on the ground pretty much immediately when Shaw abandons it in favour of tugging Root in to a kiss. Root whimpers at the contact, stiffens for a second, stilling under Shaw’s hands. 

“It’s okay,” Shaw mumbles, urging Root to action. Her mouth, when she finally responds, is cold and sweet and eager, as she moves down to scrape her teeth along Shaw’s neck. Shaw pulls at Root’s hips, digging bruising fingers in to any part of her she can reach.

She’s not sure who is leading but they manage to make their way to the bedroom. Root drags her mouth away long enough to mumble something in Dutch that sends Bear trotting over to the subway car, while Shaw reaches out blindly and draws the curtain shut behind them. She has Root on her back on the bed in seconds, her legs falling open as Shaw crawls after her. Root arches, tugging the referee shirt over her own head.

There’s nothing but smooth skin in front of her and Shaw’s head spins with everything she wants to do to it. She grips Root’s restless hips in her hands and bends to run her mouth over Root's chest. 

“I can’t believe you have a fucking lava lamp,” Shaw mutters, nipping along the curve of Root’s collarbone. She feels more than hears Root’s laugh, vibrating against her mouth, her hands. Root’s skin is warm and solid beneath her and for now she is content to let Root’s steady, confident pulse keep time. 

 

The bed beside her is still warm when Shaw drifts towards consciousness. Root is gone, but she can’t be far. 

Shaw finds her in the subway car, skin glowing blue in the wash of computer light. The screens are humming with life, endless reams of text and photographs stuttering in front of Root. Shaw has never seen her so still. 

“What is it?” 

Root doesn’t turn. “It’s Harold. His number is up.”

 

x.

They manage to track Harold to a small town just inside Arkansas. When they get to him, he has holed himself up in a motel room with enough computer equipment to run a small IT firm. Harold and John are outside talking, their voices indistinct, just barely drifting through the walls to reach Shaw. She’s sitting at the edge of one of the beds, staring at the three blank computer screens before her. 

“Did you know?” she asks. 

A cursor bursts to life. 

**YES.**

“Did she?”

There’s a pause, and then,

**YES.**

It takes every ounce of self-control Shaw can muster to not snap the monitor over her knee. She digs her fingertips in to her thighs, registers the pain of bruising and presses harder. 

**WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE?**

_See?_ Shaw wonders, maybe out loud. Either way the Machine doesn’t wait for an answer. 

Root’s face fills the screen and Shaw has to bite her tongue to keep from crying out in surprise. Root is not quite looking in to the camera. Her eyes are focused lower, scanning left to right like she’s reading. After about a minute she lets out a choked sounding laugh and leans away from the screen.

“You’re sure?”

Her voice is tinny and strange through the speakers. Shaw watches, transfixed as Root shakes her head in disbelief. 

“And if I go?”

Another pause.

“Well,” Root muses, mouth quirking a little. “You sure know how to kick a girl when she’s down.” 

Shaw leans forward, straining to take in as many of the quick, devastating shifts in Root’s expression as she can. 

“Okay,” Root says, nodding once, curt and final. “Okay.” 

Root’s eyes trail back and forth again for a minute, maybe less. Her posture sinks lower and lower and her eyes go dull. 

“Sameen,” she says, and Shaw feels like her skin is being torn up, like her bones are splintering against the confines of her body. 

“She won’t understand,” Root goes on, eyes dropping away, mouth set in a firm line. “You’ll need to explain.” 

“That’s enough,” Shaw snarls, and the screen goes black. 

There’s a knock at the door. “Shaw?”

“I’m fine,” she calls, voice steadier than seems possible given the circumstances. 

There’s no response and Shaw stares back at the blank screen, imagines the yawning dark absorbing her completely, dragging her under. 

“You’re not using her voice,” she says, remembering a warning Harold had left her with. “Why?”

**YOU ARE NOT READY.**

“According to who exactly?” Shaw spits out. The cursor blinks out at her and Shaw understands, knows instinctively she has no desire to hear that voice, and _hates_ Root for knowing that and letting the Machine take it anyways. 

She spent nine months of her life crowded with approximations of Root. She’s had her fill. 

 

xi. 

Samaritan suffocates on a bright, clear day in July, blacking out the entire eastern seaboard for a month and dragging the last vestiges of Harold’s sanity in to hell after it.

Days, weeks, months later Shaw sits in a coffee shop in Eugene, Oregon. 

The Machine has collected enough new acolytes to chase down the irrelevant numbers, so Shaw spends most of her time adrift in empty stretches of the country, waiting. A purpose she wasn’t looking for found her once, she’s sure one will again. 

She glances up at the conspicuous security camera glaring down at her from the corner of the room. 

A small red light flashes four times in quick succession. 

Shaw finishes her coffee in one long sip. 

“Okay,” she says, “I’m ready,” and waits for a phone to ring.


End file.
